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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24601717">their hearts are all full of fear</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life'>Duck_Life</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abandonment, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Isolation, Loss of Identity, M/M, MAG 170, Memory Loss, Minor Character(s), Moose, POV Second Person, Self-Hatred, The Lonely - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:28:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,205</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24601717</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An experience inside the Lonely's domain, as recollected by Herman Gorgoli</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Herman Gorgoli/Alberto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>their hearts are all full of fear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You're in a house.</p>
<p>Is it your house? Must be, right? Why would you be wandering around someone else's house?</p>
<p>Unless… maybe you were at a party, and you walked off to search for the toilet and got lost. Any moment now, the host will come and find you, shake her head with a laugh and point you in the right direction.<br/>Whose party was it? Last week you went to that dinner thing for Melinda and her wife— what's her name? Emily? Evelyn? Not a very good neighbor, if you've already forgotten her name. Alberto's going to give you an earful for—</p>
<p>"Alberto?" Your voice shakes when you speak, and it occurs to you that until you spoke the house was silent but for the ticking of the clock. "Alberto!" He was here a moment ago, he was right here, where did… Where are you? What is this place? Why are you alone?</p>
<p>Who is Alberto? </p>
<p>You walk a little farther. Is this your house? There are paintings lining the wall, brown and copper, lifeless. They make you think of… something. Empty rooms.</p>
<p>Furniture stores trying to trick you into thinking this grim space resembles a family room. Staged open houses full of cheap tables and uncomfortable chairs, the smell of fresh-baked cookies drifting through the air, old realtor trick. </p>
<p>Those cookies always smelled too sweet, commercial, an advertisement for Nestle Tollhouse baked right into the showing. <br/>Not the tart taste of the oatmeal raisin cookies your grandmother used to make, in her house up in— where was it she lived?</p>
<p>What did she look like? </p>
<p>Dread settles in your stomach. Keep moving, you tell yourself, if you keep moving maybe you'll find someone. </p>
<p>You do find someone else, eventually. He doesn't look familiar. Is he the one you're looking for? (You don't remember what he looks like, so… it's possible.)</p>
<p>The unfamiliar man asks your name, and you can't remember. Did you have a name? There's been no one else to call you by it, so why would you need something like a name?</p>
<p>You ask for his name, but he can't remember it. </p>
<p>He asks you if this is your house. And it must be, right, because why else would you be here?</p>
<p>So you tell him yes, but then you think about it. </p>
<p>You don't like these decorations. These brown and copper paintings, these loud, annoying clocks and their ceaseless ticking and tocking. You wouldn't pick this. <br/>You think that maybe your flatmate picked out the decor, your flatmate or your… someone. Somebody. But there isn't anyone else, never has been. So if you're alone and your surroundings don't feel like you, then this can't possibly be your house, can it?</p>
<p>So you tell him no, and you start to laugh. Do you look like the kind of man who lives in a big empty house full of creaky old-lady chairs and patterned wallpaper? </p>
<p>That's not you, not at all. No, you like big flashy art prints, you like bright, kitschy animal sculptures, you like… you like…</p>
<p>But anyway, you don't look like the kind of person who would live in a place like this, no, you look like the kind of person… You look like… </p>
<p>What do you look like?</p>
<p>You feel the cold tears on your cheeks, and it's hard to breathe.</p>
<p>"Do you know me?" you plead with the stranger. "Have you been looking for me? Is— is anybody looking for me?"</p>
<p>He stumbles, stutters. "I— I'm sorry, I don't—"</p>
<p>"Doesn't anybody care?" you ask him, though it feels clear now that he can't help you. "Is there… is there anybody? Please, is there anybody who cares that I'm here?"</p>
<p>The other man turns and runs from you.  <br/>Just as well. Everybody leaves. Yes, this is… right. This is the way it works. </p>
<p>Maybe you were the one leaving? Done it before… yes, you've done it before. Maybe you left and ended up here in this place, this strange place without people and without comfort. And that must have been what you wanted, to be away. To be alone. </p>
<p>You're here because you wanted to be here. </p>
<p>You can manage to make yourself believe that until you stumble into yet another room, beige and endless and with ornate mirrors hanging from each wall. The man in the mirror is a stranger and the stranger is crying, shoulders shaking and sobs coming out in perfect timing with your own tears. </p>
<p>Why would you choose this if it makes you so miserable?</p>
<p>You start scrambling for a way out, searching each room along the hallway for a door. The windows are all open but there's nothing outside but fog, cold and endless, and you're afraid that if you tried to climb out you'd never stop falling. </p>
<p>There aren't even any phones in this damn house— not that you even know who you'd call. You can't remember any names or faces, let alone telephone numbers. </p>
<p>In one room you find a closet. You yank open the sliding door, probably damaging the track it's on. You don't care. Inside the closet there are only empty hangers, swinging uselessly on the rack.</p>
<p>Empty hangers and… and a suitcase on the floor. Pressed into the back corner of the closet. Recognition prickles at the back of your mind. </p>
<p>Is it your suitcase? Were you packing up to go… somewhere? To leave? To escape?</p>
<p>You pull the suitcase out of the closet and flip it over, unzipping it with shaking fingers. It's nearly empty— no clothes, no toiletries, no shaving kit. </p>
<p>The only thing inside the suitcase is a moose. Not a real moose, obviously— although in this fucked-up house, you wouldn't be surprised. </p>
<p>No. It's a carved wooden moose, ugly and angular. </p>
<p>And it's… familiar?</p>
<p>You hate it, immediately. You definitely didn't buy this ugly old thing yourself. Is this your house? Why would you have this ugly wooden moose in your house?</p>
<p>Did somebody buy it for you? Give it to you? Give it… No, it was a gift from… It was given to…</p>
<p>Think. The fog and the clocks and it's so hard to just think. Reminds you of lonely nights standing in the corner of some nameless club, pulsing lights and music and someone going nuts with the smoke machine, watered-down drinks and faceless men with their hands on you, new and fun and exciting when all you really want is safe and known and home. </p>
<p>Think. This moose is ugly as sin, so obviously nobody would buy it. A gift, then. An… heirloom? Handmade. </p>
<p>There were more like it in his parents' house, wood-carved bears and herons and cranes on logs, turtles and big bowls where Alberto's father would keep his car keys. </p>
<p>Oh. Right. It was Alberto's grandfather who carved the damn moose. And Alberto's parents passed it down to Alberto, and Alberto was… is… is… </p>
<p>You're crying again, harder, and you clutch the ugly wooden moose to your chest like it can protect you or something. </p>
<p>Alberto. </p>
<p>His face appears in your mind suddenly, brilliant and beautiful, and you let out a strangled yell that turns into his name, over and over. </p>
<p>"Alberto!" You're running through the house, old floorboards creaking beneath your feet and you will not let go of this moose and you will not let go of Alberto's face in your mind. "Alberto! 'Berto, where are you? I— I love you! I love you, I'm here, where are you, I love you."</p>
<p>No one answers, but… but if the moose is here, does that mean Alberto's here too? Trapped in this place just like you, lost and lonely… "Alberto!" </p>
<p>Dust and cold mist fill your lungs, and you don't know how long you've been here. How long you've been in this house, scared and alone and forgetting, fading away.</p>
<p>There are other shades here, ghosts and shadows roaming around, insubstantial and afraid. Like you. </p>
<p>You cling to the hideous wooden moose. You can't help these strangers, can't help them, especially if you can't help yourself. And thinking about them makes you slip, makes your mind stutter over the image of Alberto's face. </p>
<p>"Alberto!" you call again, wondering if he's even here. If he's even looking for you. </p>
<p>Would he look for you? Would he care? Is he stumbling around this house, clinging to one of your ugly ties or garish art prints like it's precious to him? </p>
<p>Or is he somewhere… else? Somewhere else, happy and safe, happy to not be here with you. The man who broke his heart. The man who lied about wanting to share his life and then betrayed him the first chance you got, strayed at the first flirtatious glance from a stranger, the man who abandoned Alberto to rot in that comfortable suburban tomb of a house.</p>
<p>Maybe this is where you belong. Maybe… maybe it's hell. And 'Berto certainly wouldn't be there.</p>
<p>No, maybe this is all for you. You, and every other heartless bastard who ran around on the one they claimed to love. Get used to it. </p>
<p>A carved wooden antler digs into your arm. You're still holding the moose. Alberto's grandfather's moose. </p>
<p>Went to hell and couldn't even be decent enough to return his family heirloom. Typical. Maybe if you just… set it down. Leave it behind. You leave everything else. Just put it down. Just—</p>
<p>"No. No no no no no." You're standing in another room, but you don't remember walking in. Something is… is pushing you. Making you feel…</p>
<p>Making you not feel. Making you not feel anything at all. Wrong. No. You clutch at the wooden moose tightly, feeling this place try to tear it from your arms. </p>
<p>Yes. You cheated on Alberto. You let the shame and guilt sit, because feeling something is better than the empty numbness this nightmare house seems to want. </p>
<p>Yes. You left him. Ran away to the city. But… but… </p>
<p>"I came back," you say, breathing hard as the fog presses in. "I came home, I didn't stay away. And… and, yeah, I was an asshole and I w-was unfaithful, fine. But… we were… Alberto forgives me. He… forgives… me." </p>
<p>Your head is rushing, like there's wind whistling past your ears. </p>
<p>You sit down, not in one of the rickety chairs but on the floor, curled up with your back against the wall and your knees up, wrapping your arms around Alberto's moose. </p>
<p>"He forgives me," you remind yourself, because if you don't keep reminding yourself you might forget again. "He… he loves me. And I love him. And I… I'm… I'm Herman. Yeah. Herman Gorgoli, that's… that's me.</p>
<p>And Alberto is… is somewhere. He's somewhere, and he's real, and he loves me."</p>
<p>Remembering Alberto makes it easier for you to remember other people— his parents, yes, but also your parents. Your friends. Your neighbors— Melinda and Eloise, that was her wife's name, Eloise. Her voice was squeaky and high-pitched and she talked like every sentence was a question and you hated it and if you ever see her again you will weep with joy. </p>
<p>Keep remembering. Keep reminding yourself. Melinda and Eloise. Frank and Beth with their creepy taxidermy collection, Georgia with the dog that barked at all hours of the night. </p>
<p>Alberto was always better at making friends with your neighbors, but if you can ever see them again you'll talk their fucking ears off. Just to see somebody, anybody. Just to remember that you're not the only man in the world, and—</p>
<p>"H-hello?"</p>
<p>A hand on your shoulder. You didn't realize you were squeezing your eyes shut until now, and you snap them open to see who is touching you, who is leaning over you so concerned and looming like a shadow in the dim room, and—</p>
<p>"Alberto," you say, and after so many hours/days/months shouting for him it's all you can do now to whisper his name. </p>
<p>"I was looking for you—"</p>
<p>"— lost in this big empty house, and I kept forgetting—"</p>
<p>"— thought I might have died and gone to—" </p>
<p>"— I was shouting for you and—" </p>
<p>"I found," you tell him, holding up your treasure, "I found the fucking moose, 'Berto."</p>
<p>And he's crying and you're crying. He joins you on the floor, shaking with relief and hands fisted in the back of your shirt, and you hold each other tight and you won't let go. Not again, not ever again. </p>
<p>"Is there a way out of here?" he asks. </p>
<p>"I don't know. I've been… I've been looking, wandering, but I d-don't think we can—"</p>
<p>"It's okay," he says, hands strong and warm on your shoulders, and you didn't quite realize how much you were panicking until he calms you down. "It's okay. If there's a way out, we'll find it. Together."</p>
<p>"Okay," you tell him. "Okay." It's easy to believe him. </p>
<p>And all the crap before… before the fog and the endless neighborhood and this endless house, even before all the supernatural bullshit things were rough. Fatigue and ennui and passive-aggressive snipes and a seriously brutal lack of communication. </p>
<p>Navigating all that… life… had never been easy. </p>
<p>But loving Alberto? That, actually, has always been pretty easy for you.</p>
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